Tate kisses him back, leaning into it before tilting back his head and watching Kavinsky get to his feet. He follows after a beat, dropping his shit to the table and swiping another cookie before haunting like a shadow behind him toward the bedroom as he unwraps and bites down into this third? fortune of the night. Kavinsky's room is familiar and while Tate does like having his own space - he has come here to invade Kavinsky's, from time to time.
Like now, when he flops down on one side of the bed and watches him with his head tilted to the side and hair a golden halo around his head. "Fortune says trusting in dominant forces will lead to good things," he murmurs with amusement. City's never been lowkey on their emphasis for the roles but.
"Ready when you are." He says, sitting up to be a little more alert. He's excited about this - getting something from Kavinsky nobody else can replicate for him. That selfish hum in his chest is raised but he feels warm, happy and content for it.
Kavinsky rolls his eyes, a little smirk tugging his mouth when he hears the fortune. Not subtle. He keeps a baggie with violent green pills and one with violently blue ones and sits on the edge of the bed. He considers, thinking how best to about this.
Some easy shit first. In and out.
He picks up a bottle of beer that's been sitting on his nightstand since at least the night before and downs a green pill. It hurls him into sleep and he drops back onto the bed bonelessly. It's just as Tate's seen before: a bit of quick breathing, then nothing, then a sharp gasp and a jolt as he forced back into consciousness.
Tate watches Kavinsky do - whatever he is. He drops back into some trance like state and it astonishes him. He's reaching across to make sure the beer bottle doesn't topple over, flinching only in the slightest when Kavinsky reanimates into life. He expected it, but even still. Weird shit to look down and see vinyl there, but the intake of breath and the change of his posture is an easy read: Tate's lowkey excited, impressed like a kid unboxing something on Christmas.
"Better not be scratched," he murmurs with a crooked smile.
Kavinsky rolls his eyes. If he could move, he'd chuck the stack.
"Don't be a shithead," he slurs softly, still dazed as he comes back. The pill might wake him up, but he can't force his body to catch up with the jarring experience of being slammed in and out of deep sleep.
Tate leans to take the records, easing them off of Kavinsky - blinking down at him for a moment. There's something now too familiar about that dazed look, like they've been in this situation so often that Tate's just at ease with it. Doesn't help Kavinsky's continued highs tends to make him floating through consciousness just his constant state of being.
"They look good to me," he says after flipping through - lingering on a couple choice records he's more than happy to see again. "You need to sit up?"
Kavinsky shakes his head a little. "Need another pill," he says. He manages to get the baggie open but it takes a little longer to get the fucking thing to his mouth. Powering through lingering sleep paralysis is a bitch.
He swallows it dry and the process repeats itself. By the time it his his stomach, he's out, hurled back into dreaming. What else did Tate want? Books. Titles flicker through his memory and the books are there to meet him: all he has to do is grab them. They aren't all the ones off Tate's list, he didn't study it hard enough to remember some of the more random titles, but he's got the ones that he can associate easily with Tate and one or two that stood out. Whole, complete copies of things he's never read.
He's out a little longer this time; he stops breathing for almost a minute before the hypnic jerk happens, forcing his body to wake up. His breath shivers hard as he exhales and he's staring blankly at the ceiling for a long moment when he comes back, arms locked around a load of books that weren't there a moment ago.
Tate watches, after moving the records off to the side by the foot of the bed. When Kavinsky seems to do worse in the second round, he's already reaching out to touch him before he snaps awake. Tate's fingers still skim over him and he's less concerned about taking the books as he is getting them off of Kavinsky, brushing them to the side to lay his hand against Kavinsky's sternum.
"Yeah I'm fine. It's just a lot of shit at once. Not small shit." He can do scores of pills, dozens upon dozens of little things. It's easy. He can do big things, too, but he usually sticks to just one at a time. It takes more than just thinking of them to bring them into being: it takes will power to get them right.
Besides, the pills hit him weird sometimes. He remembers playing this game with Ronan, this stupid in-and-out rush, bringing back things to show off to each other.
He can't move; his fingers twitch a little as Tate moves books and touches his chest. Kavinsky looks up at him.
Tate stares at him for a beat before reaching for his pills, curling his fingers around them to pull them away as well. Then he reaches to rest his hand against Kavinsky's side, brows raised.
"No more then, this is - more than enough for now." He says, intent on keeping these little green pills away from Kavinsky. "Thank you, though."
"I'm getting you the picture," he insists even as Tate takes his baggie away. He manages to move, heavy and a little uncoordinated, so he can get closer to his pillows. He's got that pins-and-needles feeling in his arms and fingers.
"Gimme one of the blue ones. Sends me off easier and doesn't knock me awake. Picture might take a while."
"You look like shit, it can wait." Tate mutters, crawling up the bed alongside Kavinsky - still unsure if he should touch him or not, he tries to help him get comfortable against the pillows, pulling one closer to his head.
He touches his hand to Kavinsky's forehead, like he expects a fever. "What else makes blue different than green? Tell me the catch."
"The blue ones just help me fall asleep. Slow. Not like the green ones. I dunno how long I'll be out with those," he admits. Sometimes he takes them after he's been going for a few days, just so he can drift off like a normal person.
He lolls his head to look at Tate.
"Or you can just stay here with me and hope I fall asleep the normal way."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Tate murmurs looking down at Kavinsky and remembering not too long ago, when he was putting Kavinsky to bed in this same apartment. Tate settles farther down on his side, laying next to Kavinsky and looking him over - he's not about to give the pills back, but. Staying he can do.
"How are your arms?" He asks, thumbing over the back of Kavinsky's hand - checking in on the status of his paralysis.
"They're fine," he insists with a faint smile. Tate's being downright tender and Kavinsky isn't entirely sure how to feel about it. He likes it, but can he trust it?
He tips his head toward Tate, looking at the space between them as the other boy's thumb brushes his hand. Kavinsky wiggles his fingers a bit like that might prove something. He is tired. There's that, at least.
Tate's stroking of Kavinsky's hand halts when he's asked that question, and he looks up abruptly as if it were a splash of cold water right in his face. Not what he was expecting for a bed time story, so his gaze is uncertain when he looks into Kavinsky's eyes and pinches his brows together.
"Because she was a cunt." He answers, voice - sharper. "Why?"
"Just asking," he answers, soft in the face of sudden sharpness. His fingers brush Tate's like he's trying to soothe him. Maybe not the best topic to start on but Kavinsky's filters are all gone.
He was thinking of his own mother, of the shift between New Jersey and Virginia, when she started getting nosy and all up in his business. He's aware, vaguely, that maybe she just had time all of a sudden: time to be a mom, and she was trying to catch up. But it just felt like an invasion. So he made it stop.
"Been doing this since I was a kid. I don't know if they ever noticed."
Tate's sharpness sticks in his chest but doesn't keep pouring out, because Kavinsky derails it by talking about himself. Tate relaxes, listening, sinking to rest his head down against the crook of his belt arm on the bed. His other hand stays near Kavinsky's, just barely touching.
"I don't know why my mother was ever a mother to begin with," he murmurs - knowing full well that her kids were probably a strong reason why. Not what she planned, not what she expected and not what she wanted. Even him. Tate's lips firmly set together.
"They couldn't do it?" He asks, to turn back to that. "Just... you, how'd you even learn you could do it? How'd you perfect it?"
Kavinsky shakes his head. “Don’t think so, but I don’t know,” he admits. If either of his parents were capable of this, he thinks he would have noticed eventually.
Or maybe not.
He sighs and rubs his cheek a little, almost like he’s fighting sleep.
“I just did it,” he answers. “Vaguely realized what I was doing, I guess. Like, where the stuff I woke up with came from. Didn’t really start practicing shit until I was a little older.”
"Figures, nobody notices the shit you're going through as a kid - my mother never did, either." He murmurs, eyelids low and heavy but sleep's not coming for him yet. He's got to keep watch over Kavinsky, if he decides to drift again. He really just wishes they were talking about literally anything else.
"You're not denying you perfected it though, huh? Egoist." Tate says with a slightly amused snort.
"Gotta be perfect," he murmurs. "It's a skill. Gotta practice to get good at it or weird shit happens."
Kavinsky lolls his head so he can look at Tate. He remembers things he isn't sure he wants to remember and he doesn't like the vulnerable feelings that try to creep in. This is why he likes his pills.
"Made a career out of it, like here. People knew my shit was the best."
Tate picks up on the tail end of Kavinsky's first sentence, blinking his eyes open and more alert. But he tries to soothe Kavinsky with a hand through his hair, anything to coax him into staying in this - blissful limbo, slipping down into sleep. If he wants answers, he's got to keep coaxing, too.
"Some might say you're a cheat, huh." He asks, threading his fingers through Kavinsky's hair and massaging them against his scalp. "What's the weird shit?"
"How's it cheating? Just 'cause I can do it and other people can't." Kavinsky shifts a little bit, but he's feeling sleepy and heavy and it's kind of nice with someone else lying next to him.
He shrugs a little. "Things that don't come out right. Nightmares, sometimes."
"People get jealous of what they can't have, what they can't do." He murmurs, keeping his voice low. He's got Kavinsky where he wants him, lulled to the cusp. Malleable, in a way. Tate keeps playing with his hair, knowing how much of a trigger it is for himself. He hopes it feels as good for Kavinsky.
"What kinda things? It gets all freaky or something?"
"Stick around," he murmurs as Tate's fingers stroke through his hair. It sends pleasant chills down his back and out to his fingertips. "Maybe someday you'll find out."
It's kind of ominous but also true. He's had to deal with night horrors since getting here, with the only exception being at Fort Harmony. Nick's seen one, maybe Tate will, too.
Some people might be alarmed by this - Tate's only intrigued. He keeps toying his fingers through Kavinsky's dark hair, and curls a little bit closer to him as the motions gently stop. He's still not about to sleep, but he can get comfortable here - let his buzz ebb away slowly just like this.
"Doesn't scare me." He says, pulling his hand away from Kavinsky's head to rest it over his chest. "So I guess we'll see."
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Like now, when he flops down on one side of the bed and watches him with his head tilted to the side and hair a golden halo around his head. "Fortune says trusting in dominant forces will lead to good things," he murmurs with amusement. City's never been lowkey on their emphasis for the roles but.
"Ready when you are." He says, sitting up to be a little more alert. He's excited about this - getting something from Kavinsky nobody else can replicate for him. That selfish hum in his chest is raised but he feels warm, happy and content for it.
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Some easy shit first. In and out.
He picks up a bottle of beer that's been sitting on his nightstand since at least the night before and downs a green pill. It hurls him into sleep and he drops back onto the bed bonelessly. It's just as Tate's seen before: a bit of quick breathing, then nothing, then a sharp gasp and a jolt as he forced back into consciousness.
Clutching a stack of vinyls.
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"Better not be scratched," he murmurs with a crooked smile.
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"Don't be a shithead," he slurs softly, still dazed as he comes back. The pill might wake him up, but he can't force his body to catch up with the jarring experience of being slammed in and out of deep sleep.
"Take 'em off me, man. Make sure I got 'em all."
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"They look good to me," he says after flipping through - lingering on a couple choice records he's more than happy to see again. "You need to sit up?"
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He swallows it dry and the process repeats itself. By the time it his his stomach, he's out, hurled back into dreaming. What else did Tate want? Books. Titles flicker through his memory and the books are there to meet him: all he has to do is grab them. They aren't all the ones off Tate's list, he didn't study it hard enough to remember some of the more random titles, but he's got the ones that he can associate easily with Tate and one or two that stood out. Whole, complete copies of things he's never read.
He's out a little longer this time; he stops breathing for almost a minute before the hypnic jerk happens, forcing his body to wake up. His breath shivers hard as he exhales and he's staring blankly at the ceiling for a long moment when he comes back, arms locked around a load of books that weren't there a moment ago.
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"Hey," he asks, voice low. "You okay?"
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Besides, the pills hit him weird sometimes. He remembers playing this game with Ronan, this stupid in-and-out rush, bringing back things to show off to each other.
He can't move; his fingers twitch a little as Tate moves books and touches his chest. Kavinsky looks up at him.
"Nothing's ever free."
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"No more then, this is - more than enough for now." He says, intent on keeping these little green pills away from Kavinsky. "Thank you, though."
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"Gimme one of the blue ones. Sends me off easier and doesn't knock me awake. Picture might take a while."
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He touches his hand to Kavinsky's forehead, like he expects a fever. "What else makes blue different than green? Tell me the catch."
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He lolls his head to look at Tate.
"Or you can just stay here with me and hope I fall asleep the normal way."
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"How are your arms?" He asks, thumbing over the back of Kavinsky's hand - checking in on the status of his paralysis.
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He tips his head toward Tate, looking at the space between them as the other boy's thumb brushes his hand. Kavinsky wiggles his fingers a bit like that might prove something. He is tired. There's that, at least.
"Why do you think your mom was so fucked up?"
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"Because she was a cunt." He answers, voice - sharper. "Why?"
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He was thinking of his own mother, of the shift between New Jersey and Virginia, when she started getting nosy and all up in his business. He's aware, vaguely, that maybe she just had time all of a sudden: time to be a mom, and she was trying to catch up. But it just felt like an invasion. So he made it stop.
"Been doing this since I was a kid. I don't know if they ever noticed."
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"I don't know why my mother was ever a mother to begin with," he murmurs - knowing full well that her kids were probably a strong reason why. Not what she planned, not what she expected and not what she wanted. Even him. Tate's lips firmly set together.
"They couldn't do it?" He asks, to turn back to that. "Just... you, how'd you even learn you could do it? How'd you perfect it?"
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Kavinsky shakes his head. “Don’t think so, but I don’t know,” he admits. If either of his parents were capable of this, he thinks he would have noticed eventually.
Or maybe not.
He sighs and rubs his cheek a little, almost like he’s fighting sleep.
“I just did it,” he answers. “Vaguely realized what I was doing, I guess. Like, where the stuff I woke up with came from. Didn’t really start practicing shit until I was a little older.”
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"You're not denying you perfected it though, huh? Egoist." Tate says with a slightly amused snort.
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Kavinsky lolls his head so he can look at Tate. He remembers things he isn't sure he wants to remember and he doesn't like the vulnerable feelings that try to creep in. This is why he likes his pills.
"Made a career out of it, like here. People knew my shit was the best."
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"Some might say you're a cheat, huh." He asks, threading his fingers through Kavinsky's hair and massaging them against his scalp. "What's the weird shit?"
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He shrugs a little. "Things that don't come out right. Nightmares, sometimes."
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"What kinda things? It gets all freaky or something?"
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It's kind of ominous but also true. He's had to deal with night horrors since getting here, with the only exception being at Fort Harmony. Nick's seen one, maybe Tate will, too.
"Especially if you sleep in here."
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"Doesn't scare me." He says, pulling his hand away from Kavinsky's head to rest it over his chest. "So I guess we'll see."
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